The Cruelest Stranger

by Winter Renshaw

  I never saw her as a sister in any sense of the word.

  I suspect the feeling was mutual—except, of course, when she needed me to clean up one of her messes.

  Early on, Errol took to her quickly. Though if I know my brother—and believe me, I do—he did it to spite me.

  The two of us have been at odds for as long as I can remember, and the bastard saw an opportunity to make me feel excluded, and he took it. Errol and Larissa were inseparable, trading secrets and inside jokes, playing tennis, watching movies, and lounging by the pool listening to music.

  Joke was on him though.

  I never cared.

  I still don’t.

  Maybe I would if I could—but caring is a weakness, a gateway to self-destruction.

  And I’m as indestructible as they come.

  I crank the volume of the Chopin, sip my Scotch, and sink back into my seat. I’m seconds from closing my eyes and escaping to a world away when my phone vibrates on the coffee table.

  “Hello?”

  “Yes, is this Bennett Schoenbach?” There’s an older woman on the other end, her voice unfamiliar.

  “Who is this?”

  “My name is Jeannie Hanaway, and I work with the Department of Family and Social Services. Do you have a moment to speak to me in regards to Larissa Schoenbach?”

  “No. I don’t. And I’m sorry to inform you, but Larissa passed away this week.”

  My thumb readies over the red button and I’m about to end the call when the woman says, “I’m aware of her passing. That’s why I’m calling. This matter is in regards to that and it’s rather urgent.”

  Settling into my chair, I clear my throat. “All right. What is it?”

  “According to my paperwork, Larissa designated you as the sole guardian of her daughter in the event of her death.”

  Silence perches between us.

  I stand. “I don’t know what kind of sick and twisted stunt you’re trying to pull, but if you call me again with this nonsense, you’ll be hearing from my attorney.”

  “Ex … excuse … m—me?” Her stammer is nothing more than an act, I’m sure of it.

  “Larissa never had a child.”

  Paper rustles on the other end. “I can assure you she did. Her name is Honor and she lives here in town. She’s been in foster care the past several years as Ms. Schoenbach attempted to get herself on her feet. I guess I’m confused here. I thought—”

  “Is this about money? Is this some bizarre attempt at extorting my family? Profiting from my sister’s death? Because if it is, you’re—”

  “—no. Oh, God, no. Mr. Schoenbach, I understand this must come as a shock to you, but I can assure you this is not a joke or extortion or anything like that. As I said, my name is Jeannie Hanaway. You can find my contact information on the state’s Department of Family and Social Services website. I can give you my supervisor’s name if you’d like? I’d like to arrange a face-to-face meeting at your earliest convenience if you’d—”

  I end the call.

  I refuse to believe Larissa has a six-year-old daughter because if she did—she sure as hell wouldn’t have left her to me.

  7

  Astaire

  My finger hovers over the ‘send’ button Saturday morning, and I re-read my email for the dozenth time.

  This is insane.

  Normal people don’t do this.

  But ever since our chance encounter Thursday night, I can’t stop thinking about the man in the bar, his dead wife, and the mystery shrouding her obituary.

  Not only that, but I keep wondering what Trevor would do if he were still here, what he’d say.

  He had a heart the size of Texas—a heart which now beats in someone else’s body.

  He was fluent in compassion and altruism, constantly going out of his way to help others. Holding doors for strangers no matter how late he was running. Rescuing stray animals and going out of his way to find no-kill shelters for them. Offering his spare change at every red kettle or gas station donation jug.

  And those were just the little things.

  This morning, over coffee and buttered toast, I decided to look up Bennett’s email address on his company’s website, create an anonymous email address for myself, and compose a heartfelt message in hopes that it might bring him comfort in this difficult time.

  Sipping the remains of my lukewarm coffee, I give it one final read.

  TO: Bennett.Schoenbach@SchoenbachCorp

  FROM: AnonStranger@Rockmail

  SUBJECT: Condolences

  Dear Bennett,

  You don’t know me, but recently I learned of your loss, and I wanted to express my deepest sympathies. I’m no stranger to loss myself. A year ago, my fiancé was involved in a car accident and unfortunately didn’t survive. No one can ever prepare you for something like this. One minute, you’re going along, living your day-to-day life, your future filled with hopes and dreams, and the next minute …

  Well, I’m sure you know.

  The first week or two, you’re going to have an outpouring of sympathies from those closest to you—and maybe even a few distant acquaintances who feel affected by this tragedy. But once the fanfare fades and everyone carries on with their life, you’ll be forced to carry on with yours as well.

  It might seem impossible.

  And it’ll be the hardest thing you’ll ever have to do.

  But I’m here to tell you, you can do it.

  And if you ever want to talk, vent, commiserate … I’m here.

  Send me an email.

  Or not.

  It’s completely up to you.

  I just wanted you to know you aren’t alone.

  With sincerest sympathies,

  An Anonymous Stranger

  I hold my breath and press ‘send.’ A whooshing sound a second later confirms the message has gone through. There’s no taking it back now. No second-guessing whether or not I’m overstepping my boundaries.

  I don’t expect a response, but sending this message wasn’t about that.

  I want him to know he isn’t alone, that there’s someone else in this world who understands the devastating magnitude his pain.

  In my heart of hearts, I know Trevor would’ve done the same.

  No …

  Trevor would’ve sent a handwritten card. A flower arrangement, too.

  But in this case, an email should suffice.

  Closing my laptop lid, I place it aside and clear my breakfast dishes. The window over the kitchen sink showcases a grayscale morning with a hint of light breaking through the foggy atmosphere.

  Larissa’s sunrise memorial should be starting any minute now.

  I think of the stranger—Bennett, what he must be going through. I picture him dressing in his best suit, steeling his emotions, and putting on a brave face as he greets their friends and family.

  I think of the stranger.

  I think of him all morning.

  8

  Bennett

  I arrive at the memorial fifteen minutes late, barely able to push through the flood of visitors crowding the small funeral parlor. Judging by the looks of them, I’m willing to wager they’re all here on my mother’s behalf.

  Friends.

  Acquaintances.

  Social-climbing-gossip-mongers.

  A “grieving” Victoria Tuppance-Schoenbach stands by an oversized (and outdated) photo of a smiling Larissa at her Betancourt graduation, her skin clear and eyes vibrant as she hadn’t yet discovered the thrills of crystal meth, angel dust, and black tar heroin.

  My mother is dressed in Chanel the color of death from head to toe, surrounded by an aura of elaborate white floral arrangements, her oversized wedding ring glimmering under the soft lighting. Funny, she wants everyone to believe she still wears the damn thing despite the fact that I watched her slide it off the evening after my father’s funeral and lock it in a box in her closet.

  All these years later, I’ve yet to see her wear it until this moment.


  United front and all that, I’m sure.

  I position myself in an unoccupied corner of the room, observing as she shakes hands.

  There come the bittersweet smiles.

  The tearful nods.

  The lingering embraces.

  I try not to grimace as she wipes invisible tears from the corners of her eyes.

  It’s a choregraphed act, and for a moment, I’m reliving my father’s memorial five years ago, when she gave an Oscar-worthy performance of a widow in mourning, cringe-worthy sobs, buckling knees, and the like.

  Never mind the fact that they hadn’t slept in the same bed in a decade or the fact that they’d each taken up secret lovers—not that I happened upon that information intentionally. Evidently getting caught was part of the thrill for each of them.

  Ten minutes later, the shit show is still going strong.

  I’ve been bothered by a handful of visitors, when in walks the man of the hour: my mother’s golden boy.

  “Errol, darling …” Mother tempers her excitement, keeping it at a funeral-appropriate volume, and waves him over with a single gloved hand.

  His wife, Beth, is latched onto his arm, quietly scanning the room in search of familiar faces, I assume. Funny. I could have sworn my mother explicitly said Beth wouldn’t be coming. Errol must have talked her into it.

  Perhaps he couldn’t bear the thought of running into me solo, without his human buffer to shield him from the daggers I can’t help myself from shooting his way any time we’re forced to breathe the same oxygen.

  But Beth is dressed in gray—an intentional move, I’m certain.

  Black would suggest she’s grieving.

  Black would suggest she gives a damn that Larissa is dead.

  My mother cups Errol’s gaunt face, tender in her hands, and thanks him for coming before kissing the air beside Beth’s healthy, blush-colored cheeks and giving her freshly-manicured hands a squeeze.

  “Have you seen your brother?” she asks.

  Errol shrugs and shakes his head.

  Mother scans the room.

  Beth excuses herself to the ladies’ room.

  If I were a kind and decent person, I’d probably say hello, make my presence known, put on a show and be a good Schoenbach.

  But instead, I remain anchored in my corner, watching the rest of the room grieve a woman who was too weak to be one of us, too lost in this world to have stood a chance, too soft to have survived the grimy, drug-infested world in which she sought solace.

  “Bennett, hi.” Beth emerges from the ladies’ room a few minutes later, sauntering in my direction, her red-bottomed heels scuffing against the tight-knit carpet. “My gosh, it’s been so long.”

  Her mouth curls into a half-smile, half-pout, as if she’s glad to see me but knows it isn’t appropriate to pretend to be excited in this moment.

  Leaning in, she kisses my cheek, her dress pressing against my suit long enough that her French perfume clings to the fabric and assaults my lungs long after she releases her hold on me.

  “How have you been? How are you holding up?” She rubs my arm, head tilted as she gazes up at me. “Errol misses you, you know … talks about you all the time … wonders how you’re doing … we both wonder how you’re doing …”

  “I’m fine, Beth.”

  I’ve never understood her affinity for me, but it was instant, from the moment he brought her home. Over the years, I’ve boiled it down to Beth’s being an only child and eagerly yearning for a chance at the kid brother she never had. I don’t think it’s anything more sinister than that. Beth is a simple woman with simple motives, most of them boiling down to things like money, status, and name recognition—three things she’s afforded by being married to my brother.

  I don’t ask about Errol. She’ll just give me a canned response faker than the double-Ds protruding from her bony chest.

  “You want to come say hi? I’m happy to be the middle man.” She bites her lower lip, eyes pleading as though she gives a shit. The true reason she wants a reconciliation at this point is because she thinks I might finally give Errol a seat at the Schoenbach Corporation table. A seat at the table equals a fancy title with a fat paycheck that would actually support their cushy lifestyle so they can finally stop slapping lavish dinners and ‘gram-worthy vacations on maxed-out credit cards and falling behind on their second mortgage every few months.

  My father would have left half of his company to my brother had Errol not refused his opportunity at Harvard School of Business—my father’s singular stipulation.

  But Errol refused, opting to attend some overpriced art school so he could live his best hipster life.

  “I’ll make my way over in a few.” I survey the room, which has cleared out in the last several minutes, and talk myself into getting this over with.

  Beth saunters back to her husband, who looks like he walked off the cover of GQ with his navy Givenchy suit and slicked-back man-bun. Slipping her arm into his, she rises on her toes to whisper something into his ear. He responds and then kisses her.

  Our mother is oblivious to it all, greeting another friend of hers before dabbing her eyes for the millionth time.

  I decide to head across the room, but not before checking my work email first.

  Claudia in HR was supposed to send me some written complaint someone in payroll filed against one of our VPs, and I need to know what kind of fire I’ll be putting out Monday morning or if it’s anything that’ll require a weekend call to our lead corporate attorney.

  My screen blinks and my inbox refreshes, filling the glass rectangle with dozens upon dozens of unread messages—none from Claudia.

  Some days I contemplate firing each and every sloth on my father’s original team and replacing them with sharks who aren’t afraid to do their damn jobs.

  Days like this, I’m far too tempted.

  Thumbing through and deleting messages, I stop when I get to one with the subject line: CONDOLENCES from a sender by the name of AnonStranger.

  Positive it’s a scam but too intrigued to ignore it, I tap my screen and pull up the message.

  A minute later, I’ve read this person’s email not once, not twice, but three times, my blood simmering hotter each time.

  Without giving it a second thought, I compile my unfiltered response and hit send.

  The fucking nerve of people.

  9

  Astaire

  He replied.

  I blink twice, rub my eyes, and refresh the page.

  The unread email remains. I’m not imagining it.

  My morning was filled with laundry, a brisk walk to the library to return a couple of books, a visit to the Elmhurst Theatre to check the volunteer schedule, and then brief intermission from it all to watch All About Eve—anything I could do to peel my fixation away from Bennett Schoenbach and his curious situation.

  But shortly after dinner, I caved and allowed myself to check my email … just in case.

  I click on his response, noting the timestamp of 8:41 AM.

  He had to have been at the memorial when he wrote this …

  TO: AnonStranger@Rockmail

  FROM: Bennett.Schoenbach@SchoenbachCorp

  SUBJECT: RE: Condolences

  Anonymous Stranger,

  Your sympathies, condolences, and commiserations aren’t needed nor are they wanted. You don’t know my situation. You couldn’t possibly understand my feelings regarding this loss nor should you need to—because they’re none of your business.

  The fact that you felt compelled to express your feelings anonymously, from the other side of a computer screen in God-knows-where, is frankly stated: pathetic.

  Is this some sick and twisted thing you do? Do you scour obituaries in newspapers and then email their family members? What gives you the right to bother strangers? To make their tragedies about yourself? Surely you have better things to do with your time, yes?

  Do me a favor and mind your own business.

  But fir
st, go fuck yourself.

  Sincerely,

  Bennett Schoenbach

  The sting of hot tears clouds my vision for a few seconds before I force them away. I was so sure I wouldn’t get anything back from him that I hadn’t stopped to consider how I’d feel if he were to send me a scathing response.

  Maybe I overstepped my boundaries, but my intentions were noble. If the email upset him that much, all he had to do was delete it and block my email address—not that I would’ve emailed him a second time.

  I pace my apartment, gather my thoughts, and pour myself a glass of red wine before settling down in front of my computer and clicking ‘reply’ against my better judgement.

  TO: Bennett.Schoenbach@SchoenbachCorp

  FROM: AnonStranger@Rockmail

  SUBJECT: Re: re: Condolences

  Dear Bennett,

  Allow me to introduce myself—my name is Astaire (yes, as in Fred Astaire) and I’ve lived through more hardships and tragedies in my twenty-six years than most people will experience in their lifetime. I don’t normally introduce myself this way as I don’t believe we should be defined by our pasts or the things that have happened to us, but it seems like a relevant fact to share with you given the context of these emails.

  As a small child, I was placed in foster care. I never met my father. Never really knew my mother. I lived with thirteen families before I was adopted by an older woman who had never had children and decided to take a chance on my rebellious teenage self.

  My years with my adoptive mother were some of the best I’d ever known. She taught me everything I needed to know about life, love, perseverance, and forgiveness. But in the middle of my freshman year of college, she was diagnosed with Stage IV brain cancer and within months, she was gone.

  Nevertheless, I carried on. For her. For me. For the future I promised to live for her.

  Around the same time, I met a man who would go on to become my fiancé. We had a class together—both of us studying Education. The man could light a room, and it was his wit that drew me to him first, followed by his contagious smile and sparkling eyes that made me lose my train of thought whenever he gave me that look...